


Public Relations

by LA_Dmitri



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 76 is a crab apple and you should dislike him, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Overwatch AU, Trans Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes, bisexual lucio, eventual bangaranging, hard and fast burn, jamison is also a changeling, mercy is a Valkyrie, nonbinary lucio, pretty much nobody in this au is a human because humans are boring, switching POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 05:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15236322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LA_Dmitri/pseuds/LA_Dmitri
Summary: Jamison Fawkes has been locked up longer than he can remember in a poor reboot of what was once the great and powerful Overwatch. Every day is the same boring routine, and he's getting really sick of 76 always breathing down his neck. This far gone, the last thing he ever expects is somebody to actually acknowledge him as a more than a criminal. That is until the new PR guy invites himself into Jamison's life. Who does he think he is, being all nice and shit?





	Public Relations

**Author's Note:**

> I hopped on this ship and sailed softly into that good night. Mhmn.

My name is Jamison Fawkes. I’m twenty four years old, and I’m bored out of my shitless fucking mind. 

Let’s start at the beginning. I stole some shit, got caught, and because I’m no stranger to the justice system here in the great and beautiful Outback, they gave me two options. Option one, and my personal preference, prison for pretty much the rest of my good and golden days to keep me out of trouble. Option two, my personal Hell, become a part of the branch of Overwatch that’d popped up like an arse pimple and turned all of the Junkers mad as a cut snake. 

As a proud Junker, a true blue, I’ll give you one guess which option I picked. Now, guess which option the courts gave me, without my agreement.

Bunch of fucking drongos, this lot. They’re all boring, washed-up, has-beens trying to make something great out of a pile of shit. The original Overwatch was disbanded, made illegal, and then rebranded as a civil service agency with limited capacity, all on 76’s dime. That fruit loop came out of retirement just to dredge up the glory days. He thought that a second chance with a bunch of bodgy upstarts might put faith back into something that the majority of the whole world hated. It should have gone tits up for him, but as it turns out, the world doesn’t care anymore. Sure, there was a lot of suspicion at first, but when the new complex went up just outside of Junkertown, everybody had a good laugh about it, gave it a fair go, and then turned a blind eye.

Nowadays, this place is some fucked up prison with a bunch of war worn seniors looking after it. Funny though, I’m the only hoon that takes up space here. It’s so stupid.

I have one tiny room to myself, designated meal times,  and fuckall to do elsewise.

I used to have some ability to advocate for myself, but 76 pissed me off, and I got mouthy, and fisty, with him. That wowser decided that I was too much trouble and now I have not one, but  _ two _ goddamned ankle bracelets. Here’s the little problem with that though: I only have one leg. My other side’s just a peg. It’s a really cool peg, but there’s no way to adhere a bracelet to a pirate leg. Yo-ho, a win for Jamison.

Or, you know, so I thought. Turns out 76 hates me so much that he’d rather ruin my leg than put faith in the one bracelet working. Sunuvabitch had the damn monitor soldered to my leg. Yo-ho, yo-ho a drongo’s life for me.

If I’m being honest though, all of this is excessive. I am a  _ petty  _ criminal. I stole some shit and got caught. Yeah, it happened more than once, but it’s not like I go on murdering sprees when I’m trying to buy my way back into the only place I’ve ever considered close to home. I’ve only ever killed one man, and that was a Suit who blew up a building with people inside of it for the money. Lawlessness doesn’t mean I’ve gone and tossed my moral compass into the Never Never for the dingos to have a snack on. I’m an idiot and a petty criminal, but my heart’s still there.

Nobody wants to hear that from me though. All the people working here are so busy licking 76’s boot that none of them pay me mind unless it’s to spy.

The only person who at least pretends to be interested in me is Tracer. But she’s just dobbing me in. I got wise to her off the go when she opened with, “hi, I’m Tracer! Building anything lately, Jamison?” The pearly smile that came with it almost gave me a technicolour yawn. Her making nice at and creepy interest in me is so sugary from being so fake that her very presence raises my risk for diabetes. I’ve told her to sod off more than once, but she keeps coming back like the human personification of the Clap. I wish I could throw some antibiotics at her and keep her off my hide for a while. I’ll take the maddening silence and isolation over the surprise appearances from Tracer.

Thankfully, she’s been busy trying to reason with the Junkers as of late. They want to overthrow this trash heap, and I really wish they would. That little Sheila is going to need a Hell of a lot of luck trying to get that rowdy group to listen to her.

I really miss the Junkers. I was one of them before I became this double bracelet wearing Rat in a cage. I can only dream about the mayhem now. Once, I thrived on the chaos we caused. Junkertown is loud, clanging and banging all damn day. My leg thumping on metal and the pop offs of my bombs was nothing but background noise in my every waking moment. Here, locked in this concrete hull, it’s about as quiet as a retirement home. No explosions, no clanging or banging, just silence I can pull out of the air and plug my ears with. Not to mention, it’s fucking cold.

Makes me miss being outside in the Australian heat all the more. I miss the sunlight and the warmth on my skin. I haven’t see the outside in six months now. At least I think it’s been six months. The calendar in my cell is two years outdated, so keeping proper track of passing time is getting real difficult.

I only know sunup from sun down by the strict schedule that 76 has me on. I wake up at the same time every single day. I get dressed, I report to a guard making his round that I’m alive and not causing mayhem, and then I sit and stare at my walls for two hours, intermittently reporting to more guards. I get to eat breakfast in a specific allotted time. Then I get to sit in my cell for six hours, with more guards more frequently. Then lunch. Then five more hours of sitting and guards every half hour. Then dinner. Then my exciting evening of fuckall and reporting to guards. Then light’s out. Sleep, or at least pretend to, and wash, rinse, repeat. Every single fucking day.

Sometimes, to add a little spice to my day, I’ll doodle stick figure versions of myself and 76 beating the shit out of each other on my cell walls. I don’t have actual pencils, ‘cos those can be used as weapons you see, so I kicked my peg leg at the wall until a stone chip fell out. Like a fucking caveman, I’m drawing on my stone walls with stone. Makes a man feel pretty grim about his circumstances.

I have way too much bloody time to feel grim about my circumstances. Right now, for instance, is a great example. I’ve already had to deal with the Hell that is the standardized wake up call.  It’s this annoying ass jingle that’s supposed to sound heroic or something, but truthfully, it’s the audible representation of mastubatory dick waving. Probably 76’s idea.

I’ve taken to waking up a few minutes before the alarm goes off so I can loudly and poorly sing along with the jingle. I know it really rattles the guards, and I’ve learned to take my small moments where I can get them. I actually managed to avoid having the guard’s nightstick clanging on the metal door to ‘wake me up’ by croaking like a frog in heat.

Now, I’m laying on my sorry excuse for a bed, picking out shapes in the water stains on the ceiling while I wait for the mess hall to clear out.

My designated meal times are about an hour after everyone else’s. Apparently, I’m too dangerous to be allowed around the other gullible motherfuckers who willingly signed up for this shit show, so I eat by myself. My meals consist of the leftover scraps from the real food, which aren’t half bad, but the fact that 76 told me, “criminals don’t deserve luxury,” when I asked him why I have to eat the slop sours the taste a bit. I eat like dog because 76 can’t look past my indiscretions to afford me some fucking humanity.

It’s not really worth it to complain though. None of these puckered areseholes want to give having a bite with Jamison a burl. Not that I can blame them, what, with all the shop talk 76 has been spreading like state propaganda. If they want to turn off their own critical thinking and go off of rumour and speculation, then fuck ‘em. I’ll eat my shit food by myself.

My stomach howls at me to interrupt my thoughts and remind me I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. That’s another shitty stipulation on me, courtesy of 76. If I miss my meal times for any reason, then I just have to wait until my next meal to eat. I called him out on how it should be illegal to not feed me, but all he had to say was, “I didn’t commit the crimes.”

Which is total bullshit and makes no fucking sense. If I miss a meal time because I’m showering, why the fuck shouldn’t I be able to at least get a snack? Nope, I get three lukewarms, because hot is giving the slop too much credit, and a hand-me-down cot that smells like piss and rat poison. Oh, the irony.

I sit up, rub the back of my head, and heave a sigh. I can hear the guards making their rounds and earbashing like a couple of old hags. They’re talking about past glories, and while I’d  _ hate  _ to interrupt such a fascinating conversation, I’m tired of feeling my stomach digest itself.

I peel my sweaty skin from the cot and come to stand in front of the small window to my cell. “Oi, why don’t you jumbucks lemme outta here, huh?”

The guards stop, one of them clears his throat, and they appear in front of me. I do my best to smile a little too wide to really get under their skin.

“Quiet down, Fawkes. We’ll get to you when we get to you.”

I eyeball the guards. One of them shifts like he’s walking on hot coals and trying to act cool about it. Hilarious. “Right then rack off until it’s time. Shoot through before I spit the dummy at you yobbos.”

Side note: I try to pepper in as much strine as possible when dealing with these yahoos. Makes them damn near shit their shorts. That, or they think I’m really pulling the wool over their eyes. Truth is, I’m just pulling it out of my arse.

One of the guards, the taller and meaner looking one who usually harasses me midday, smacks his nightstick against the door. I reel back as the metal vibrates underneath my fingertips. “Twenty minutes, Fawkes.” He grumbles and peels off with the smaller guard at his heels.

I slink away from the door, kick at nothing on the floor, and lean against the wall. The tips of my hair illuminate the dark cell. Goddammit, I’m losing my mind. My stomach files a complaint that pushes bile up into my throat. I spit against the wall and sigh, sinking down to the floor. The little red lights on my ankle bracelets blink menacingly at me.

I bring my knees into my chest and fold my arms on top. My head finds its way into the crooks of my elbows, and I close my eyes. I don’t really need to sleep, but I like to pretend.

I ‘dream’ about the outside. The irradiated, often deadly, wastelands that glow toxic orange in the blistering sun. My buddy’s farm out on the outskirts of the city limits where we spent time building his hog and experimenting with what scraps inflicted the most bodily harm when turned into shrapnel. The Scrapyard, and even that bitch Queen who threw me out like the rubbish I am. I’d give my shit leg, the fleshy one, just to be able to spend an hour on the outside. I’d blow my arse right to that takeaway place and get some bubble tea. The fresh kind they make right then and there.

I’m really hurting for the sun. Maybe I can convince that doctor angel lady that I’m lacking vitamin D that can only be found in the Outback rays. It’s a long shot, but at this point, I willing to try anything to give me a sip of freedom. Just a little taste.

A loud rapping against the door pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up, blinking against the light filtering in through the window, and make eye contact with the small, sorta nice looking guard from before. He grimaces. I smile.

“G’day, mate.”

“Fawkes.” He pauses and chews on his lip, then unlatches the door. The metal plate slides out and up, letting the clinically white light from the hallway into my pit. “It’s time for breakfast.”

“Right bloody time! I thought you lot had forgotten me.” The guard doesn’t say anything, just makes this impatient gesture for me to come out of my cell. I don’t push my luck today, I’m way too damn hungry. “‘Kay, see you’re not much for talking.”

I step into the light and squint. The guard pokes my back with the tip of his nightstick. I can feel his nose wrinkling up behind me. My eyes roll to the back of my head, and I start the march to the cafeteria.

The halls are mostly empty, save for a few grunt soldiers doing the leg work. They either stare or purposely avoid looking at me as I pass. One guard finds religion in her fingernails. I sigh. My stomach gurgles. Another day in paradise for Jamison Fawkes.

The walk to the cafeteria is a short one. Just a hop, skip, and a jump down hallway and small set of stairs. I thump and tink down to the mess hall, and notice it’s quieter in here than usual. The normal clanging of the kitchen staff is muffled behind the closed doors to the back area where all the food prep is done. The mess hall is set up buffet style for the rest of the arseholes here, but for me? It’s set up like a bunch of scared villagers leaving peace offerings out for the bogeyman that lives in the woods.

A single tray of food sits on a table closest to the window. It looks a little more appetizing than some of the breakfasts I’ve gotten, but at this point, I’m willing to just pop open my maw and shovel in the whole meal, tray and all.

I disregard the figure behind me and take my reservation at the table. A sizable bowl of soggy oatmeal, two burnt pieces of bacon, a pile of wet, and presumably cold, scrambled eggs, and some burnt toast await me. They were even nice enough to give me a fruit cup full of ugly grapes, which I push to the side with disregard.

Honestly, this could be considered gourmet in Junkertown. I’ll take it.

I don’t bother with the fork. Instead, I pile the eggs onto one slice of toast, squash the bacon on top, and make a burnt egg sammy. It’s pulled into the vacuum of my mouth, and before I can even bother to taste it, I’m greedily shoveling cold oats into my gob, chasing the scratchy bread crumbs down.

The breakky disappears inside of me. I still have about a forty five minutes to myself, and I’m going to sit here and enjoy looking out that big arse window at the barren wasteland. The guards always try to hassle me away from the common and public areas, but they always lose that war. I think most of ‘em have given up at this point.

My insides burble like children, thankful and still sorta pissy about existing. I ignore it and watch the rays of sun crawl over the wind kicking up dust. Warmth radiates off of the glass, and I give myself a moment of weakness. My eyes slip closed. I bask like a snake on a hot rock. Hiss.

I want to lose myself in this moment. My skin aches as the sunlight touches it, almost as starved as I am.

The moment sucks me in. I lose touch. I breathe in deeply and then...coffee?

I haven’t had coffee in a long while, and the scent is strong enough to pull me away from the sun. I look up and expect to make eye contact with 76 coming to berate me for breakfast. But what my eyes do meet is a sight for a sore gaze. My lacklustre gaze, specifically.

A short man, with rich skin, and a mess of hair tied back with the same success as wrangling a four armed squid skates into the mess hall. Literally skates. This bloody bloke’s got blades for feet. They’re all lit up and connected to him with a helluva lot of tubes and wires. He’s got on some clothes that are sweat damp and straight out of a fitness centre. A little froggy picture graces the front of his top, and a white towel hangs limply around his neck. He dabs sweat away from his forehead as he sips from a mug inscribed with the Overwatch logo, and lets his deep eyes scan across the empty mess hall.

Then he sees me. And he smiles. And... _ waves _ ?

I do a dumbarse thing, and before I can stop myself, I wave back with my prosthetic arm.

The short bloke skates over to my table, gives me a cheeky grin, and plops his little arse right down like he belongs here. He sets his mug onto the table, dangerously close to me, face still lit up like a big ‘ol explosion, and passes a casual, “good morning” along the way.

“Ehm, g’day.”

He’s still fucking smiling, the nutter. “Nice to meet you! I’m Lúcio Correia dos Santos, the new head of Public Relations. I don’t think we’ve met before. You are?”

“Yer kiddin’, yea? Yer brain hasn’t gone cactus?”

He, Lúcio, tilts his head like a curious bird. “What?”

“Nevermind. Jamison.” I stick my non-prosthetic  hand out, and this bastard actually shakes it. “Misunderstood freedom fighter and contracted captive.”

“Interesting titles, but I can get behind the freedom fighter bit. You local?”

I smile. “A true blue, mate. Right proper from the Never, Never. Specifically Junkertown”

Lúcio sips his coffee. He smiles again, like he’s a fucking daft twat. Most people don't get all up and up when it comes to learning somebody's from the shit heap that makes him a Junker. I look away, not quite sure how to deal with this chipper fellow.  

“So, Jamison, how’d you get here?” He asks after another long pull from the mug.

I turn to stare at him, and break into a toothy grin. “Now that, mate, is the beginnin’ to a long fucking story.”


End file.
